


All On My Own

by Hailee_jackson



Series: Breaking Point [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Dimensions, BAMF Chuck, Brothers, Cas is confused, Cas tries to use modern words, Chuck cries, Chuck is done, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Psychological Torture, major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:00:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hailee_jackson/pseuds/Hailee_jackson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You struggle to remember, but you have lost yourself, and you try to relearn in vain. And for a moment, you have forgotten whether you’re searching for the antidote or more of the poison."</p>
<p>Or, Dean's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All On My Own

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a bit dark, guys. You have been warned.

“Dante was wrong.”

“Chuck, you appear to be typing something,” the angel helpfully interjected.

“Dammit, Cas, you’re going to make me lose my concentration!” he replied, the steadily clacking keys belying his claim.

“Does it say where?” Cas asked insistently, nearly pushing the author away from the computer in his attempt to read the screen.

“Hell if I know,” Chuck shrugged. “I don’t even know what I’m typing, to be honest.”

Cas frowned as he perused the new document. “It appears to be full of what you would refer to as ‘angst’ in lieu of any actual information. Why is that?”

Chuck sighed. “First of all, never say ‘in lieu of’ again. It dates you like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I do not understand. How is repeating a common term in any way similar to the relationships human engage in?”

“It makes you sound old,” Chuck amended, but the angel’s frown line only deepened.

“I am the oldest being on this planet, Chuck. Why can my words not reflect that?”

Chuck groaned. “It just doesn’t happen, okay? And don’t you dare bring out that head tilt on me now!”

Cas froze, head halfway positioned. “Is there a problem with the way I hold my head? I can alter that. The human head is capable of assuming an infinite number of positions while remaining centered on the neck. Coupled with an angel’s grace, the possibilities are exponentially greater.”

Chuck really did freeze then. “Sorry, did you just suggest that you have more than infinite possibilities?”

Cas nodded. “It is not inconceivable that I could adopt a head position never before used by all of mankind.”

“That could be directly related to the way that your powers tend to supersede those of mankind though, don’t you think?”

“Of course I think,” Cas replied immediately. “The circuits in my brain have not stopped transmitting signals since I first inhabited this body.”

Completely fed up, Chuck let his head fall forward and only reacted when he realized that he’d just head-keyboarded right in the middle of some very important self-pitying angst. “Shit,” he gasped, pulling his head back up and inspecting the damage.

Cas had beaten him to it and was now giddy with excitement. “There’s an address! How did you get the address?”

Chuck frowned and looked where the angel had pointed. Sure enough, tagged on the end of a line of gibberish was a perfectly clear address.

“Sometimes I really hate being a prophet,” he admitted, turning around to face a slightly miffed angel. “What’s wrong, Cas?”

“Well, it appears that I cannot fly to where Dean is,” the angel muttered in frustration, fluffing his invisible wings angrily.

Chuck sighed. “Well, why don’t you go home then? I’m sure Sam and Charlie need you about now.”

The angel frowned. “You’ll call me should anything happen?”

Chuck nodded. “I’ve got your direct line. Don’t worry about it,” he waved off the question.

Cas nodded, pursed his lips in consideration, then disappeared.

Chuck turned back to his screen with a sigh of short-lived relief and began to read what he had written. His heart leapt to his throat as he glanced over the raw pain and terror of Dean’s subconscious. He hated writing hell scenes, and Dean’s was far worse than before. 

The Mark had become a separate entity, and was filling Dean’s mind with poison and hatred and lies. Sam was still possessed, but the entity alternated between Lucifer and Gadreel. John was Azazel. Mary was Naomi. Cas was Metatron. The nightmares were endless.

“Your life’s work becomes futile, your worst memories the only ones you have anymore. You have no meaning, no purpose, no object. You are only a vessel of pain and destruction, and you don’t even have to power to wield them yourself. You were responsible for taking your own brother away from yourself. Your own guardian angel drove a blade through your heart. All the world is screaming, echoing chaos, and you’re desperate to silence it. 

“On the first try, the cries recede for a moment but return with greater force at the next, and so it goes. The harder you try, the longer the quiet, but the worse the retaliation until you lose all sense of sanity along with any semblance of control. Wildly, blindly you hack away at your humanity and everything that defines you. Desperate to dull the pain, you are oblivious to the world of pain you have created until your present destruction finally catches up to your past ones and with a final hack, you loose yourself from everything you used to love. And then, at last, comes the silence. 

“Only for the realization to set in, moments later, that being locked in silent shadows with the person you hate most but are now powerless against is a fate far worse. You struggle to remember, but you have lost yourself, and you try to relearn in vain. And for a moment, you have forgotten whether you’re searching for the antidote or more of the poison.”

Chuck froze, willing his fingers to continue moving because there had to be more. This couldn’t be the end! But they only hovered over the keys, mocking him through their virtual silence. Only then did Chuck allow himself to think that this could be the end or that the story of Dean Winchester could truly be over. Only then did he let himself fall apart.

***  
It was so dark.

Everything was black.

He couldn’t see.

He couldn’t hear.

It was silent.

He took a deep breath and frowned. He knew how to do that? What else did he know how to do?

He slowly became aware of the limbs at his sides and tried moving them slowly, gradually. He felt a thrill of an emotion when he was able to pull himself into a sitting position.

He gradually became aware of the fact that he had a face around the same time that multiple pieces of wet started to hit it, startling a sound from him.

As if on impulse, his… arms? Yes, arms! They flew up to cover the place the sound came from. 

As the pieces of wet continued to attack his body, he shivered as yet another sensation presented itself.

“Hey, man, are you alright?” came a very loud noise from somewhere behind his face.

The shivering got worse, but the sensation changed to something else.

“Hey, hey, we’ve got to get you out of here!” the noise insisted, suddenly being joined by a pressure between his arm and his face. “Hey, look at me.” Now the noise was in front of his face, and he shrunk back, taking note of his spine in the process.

“Can you open your eyes for me?” The pressure moved from between his arm and face to somewhere on his face, eliciting a quick reaction from that part of his face (which could apparently move). As it moved, the darkness started to go away, and he made it move back. The not-darkness brought a new feeling and he didn’t like it.

“Hey, there you go! You’re alright, try again! Open your eyes for me?”

He wanted to obey, although he didn’t understand why. This voice, something about it, was incredibly persuasive, but he was crippled by fear. His nightmares (realities? memories? visions?) assaulted his mind and filled him with apprehension at what he might see if he obeyed.

He cautiously filtered through what he knew about himself so far. He was a slave to his fear. He was a pawn of the supernatural. He was with someone, but he was still very much alone.

And from what he could tell, based on his scraps of memories, he had been… Resurrected? It was probably, almost definitely, just more proof that he was a pawn of the supernatural. He knew that. But resurrection meant newness. It meant a clean slate. It meant that he could, maybe, change who he thought he was. After all, they were only assumptions. He carefully added “insecure” and “carefully hopeful” to the growing list of his attributes. Then, he erased the others and forced himself to remember his coaching. 

He could change this. He didn’t have to obey his fear. He could learn to trust someone. And who better to start with than the person who just saved his life?

“You’ve gotta open your eyes for me. Just once, man, come on!” the voice persisted, and with a gigantic effort, he opened his eyes and met those of his rescuer.

“There he is,” crowed Lucifer with an evil chuckle. “What, surprised to see me? Don’t worry, I’m not really here. I’m just the welcoming party! Welcome back to your life, Dean!” His name. He was Dean. “If you ask me, you should have taken the easier route and stuck with your own convictions. Mike knows you were right. You’re less than worthless on this poor excuse of a planet. But then again, they did put you in just the right place for you, didn’t they? Guess you can’t fuck anything up here, at least for a while, can you? Although, knowing you, you’ll find a way. Well, that’s my cue! Have fun in… Whatever the hell this is!”

The contemptible archangel flickered and disappeared, and Dean struggled to sit up and look around.

“My turn,” hissed a gleeful voice behind him. 

Alastair.

He struggled to remember a single name that wasn’t that of a monster, but realized he couldn’t, even as his torturer’s first instrument teased his skin. He was shaking. He didn’t know if it was because he was cold, scared, or just plain alive.

“Alastair, you’re terrifying the boy,” Cain interjected gruffly. “Of course, I only mind because I thought he was, I don’t know, stronger? Jesus, Dean, you’re even toxic to yourself!”

“I’m sure it’s not his fault,” Abaddon crooned, letting her fingers trail along the path Alastair had marked. “He was always weak. Hell, life was too hard for him and death didn’t want him! How would you feel, huh?”

“Our little outcast,” grinned Azazel. “I’ve been looking forward to this day for longer than you can imagine, Dean!”

***

“And one by one, each in their own way, every monster Dean had ever defeated proved irrevocable truths to him. He was toxic. His own mind hated him. He was weak. And he was a monster. Over and over, they whispered the questions that had driven him to his grave. The more intelligent ones added a few original ones to the mix until he didn’t question it anymore.

“Fact: even death was repulsed by him. Proof: he was alive.

“Fact: he was his own poison. Proof: even with the Mark of Cain, he’d only gotten weaker.

“Fact: he was, without a doubt, a monster. Proof: he didn’t know anything or anyone else.

“Fact: he was alone.”

Chuck rubbed his eyes, surreptitiously concealing the tears that had slipped out in the process. He wanted to call Cas, Sam, Charlie, or anyone. But they couldn’t help. This one was on him.

Taking a deep breath, he took a healthy swig of whiskey and placed his fingers on the keyboard. The keys felt foreign and unnatural, but he pushed through it. This time, Chuck had to be the hero. “Curse you, whatever higher power rationalizes this shit as acceptable,” he muttered. “This is not the end.”

He closed his eyes and forced himself to type.

“But in the midst of the torture, the pain, and the mental warfare, a new memory pierced Dean’s hazy brain. It was subtle, barely there, but he remembered it.

“’Sammy,’ he whispered, startling his attackers. ‘I have a brother named Sammy.’

“The next part broke through in pieces through the renewed efforts of the enemies. ‘And he loves me.’

“That one realization was mindboggling enough that it took all of his concentration to fully understand. And, being so preoccupied, he never noticed his demons beginning to fade with every renewed strand of hope.

“When he reopened his eyes, he was alone again. But this time, the idea didn’t scare him at all. ‘Clean slate,’ a forgotten part of his brain reminded him.

“He dragged himself off the ground and stood, unsteadily, as everything he’d discovered about himself dissolved in the face of his newest realization. ‘Hang on, Sammy,’ he whispered into the silence. ‘I’m coming home.’”


End file.
